Untitled (I'll Keep you Safe)
by viridianjane
Summary: Camelot, Merlin thinks, is held up by my bones. [Merlin/Gwaine] (Rated M for violence, and smut)


_Camelot,_ Merlin thinks, _is held up by my bones_. And his devotion, his patience, his love and his power. Every breath is spent following his king, following orders, following trails and whispers and rumours and threats, letting his body break and his heart wither for the sake of protecting those he loves .He thinks nothing of it, a small price to pay for the lightness of their steps and the brilliance of their smiles.

When it gets to be too much, he remembers to take a moment to himself and look up to the sky; it doesn't matter if it's the primrose and yarrow of dawn, the hydrangea of midday, or the forget-me not of twilight, it's a reminder that there is a greater purpose, a brighter future blossoming right under his feet.

One night finds him sitting alone on the parapets, admiring the stars before he makes his way back to the physician's chambers. Gwaine joins him, as he occasionally does, but when Merlin turns away from the stars, he finds Gwaine looking at _him_ , instead. He blinks in surprise, cheeks flushed, and _oh._

That night, he realizes he might love the way Gwaine's eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he cherishes the way his kiss is tender and slow and not at all loud and carefree — something new, something he appreciates and tucks away for safekeeping; when Gwaine whispers _goodnight_ against his lips, it sounds more like _hello,_ and it makes his heart sing.

Seasons come and pass, and late summer takes them on a patrol around the outlying villages, eventually bringing them to a small collection of modest homes, close the border of Essetir. It is run down and dried out; the harvest will not be good this year, and the tension is almost a physical thing when they arrive.

More prominent, however, are the screams.

Smoke rises from the center of the village, and the smell of burning hair makes his eyes water.

"Forward!" Arthur shouts, spurring the rest of the knights onto the village, alerting the inhabitants to their presence by way of a dozen horses moving with enough force to make the ground shake.

They surround the villagers and the pyre, with Arthur barking orders of _stop this immediately,_ and _take her down from there!_ , but Merlin knows it's too late for the woman tied to the stake.

Her screams, which were shrill from the pain and loud enough to be heard from the forest almost a mile away, have now stopped. Amidst the crackling and popping of the wood, he can hear her rasping breath — focuses on it and feels it like it's his own lungs constricting and burning and fighting for air.

"Arthur," he says, and the king looks over from his horse. Merlin shakes his head, and he knows that Arthur can see the desperation in his expression when the king's jaw sets and back straightens. "She can't — _it's too late."_

Expression grim, Arthur reaches back for his crossbow without hesitation — loads and locks and shoots.

She chokes, once, and dies.

The villagers try to explain to Arthur that the girl — which is what she was, they discover, when they finally pull the body from the pyre — had been accused of being a witch; the crops are not doing well this year and she was seen making strange trinkets out of sticks and flowers in the forest the day before last.

 _Of course it was sorcery!,_ the villagers exclaim.

 _She had barely seen fourteen summers,_ her mother cries.

Merlin stands over the unmarked mound of the grave, feeling ill and detached from reality; it's only when Arthur comes up next to him and drops a hand onto his shoulder that he notices his presence.

"It was merciful, killing her before the flames got to her." He says nothing else, and Merlin is left feeling more alone and lost than he was before.

The trip back from the outlying village is a blur; chores are routine, thoughtless, and any smile is fake and meant to distract others from prodding any further. The smell of burning flesh lingers in his hair, in his clothes, and he can't look at his hands for fear that when he does he'll see they're stained red with blood.

The people had taken it upon themselves to put a girl on trial and burn her for sorcery. _Without hesitation. People who grew up with her, people who knew her. People who raised her._

It makes Merlin's stomach churn.

He pauses in the process of lighting the campfire, wonders what it is he's doing, arranging the wood just like they would a pyre. Arthur stops behind him, nudges him gently with the toe of his boot; he loosens the dirt with his movement. Merlin thinks of the unmarked grave and shudders. "Are you alright, Merlin?"

He looks up at Arthur, expression blank. _Would you send me to the pyre, if you knew? Or would you be merciful and kill me with a bolt through my heart?_

He swallows. "I'm fine, Sire."

They arrive back in Camelot as the sun disappears behind the horizon, a day earlier than expected; Gwen and Gaius wait anxiously on the steps, and Merlin can see them counting heads, and the confusion when all seems normal – everyone is accounted for, and no one appears to be injured. Gwen descends to the courtyard and meets Arthur as he slides off his horse. They speak in low tones, Gwen's hand a steadying weight on his arm, even as her expression grows more horrified as Arthur tells the story.

Not willing to listen, Merlin takes the horses to the stables himself without being instructed to. Arthur interjects and calls for a stable hand, tries to cuff him on the arm and jest, but Merlin ignores him. His mind is full of white noise, and he doesn't notice when he steps on the small buds of violet sprouting in the cracks of the courtyard stonework.

Arthur watches his receding back, his brows knitting together in a frown.

The castle is too full of people, people who don't understand, _who can't understand,_ who have gone most of their lives believing those like him to be evil — for nothing but the blood in his veins and the breath in his lungs and not anything that he can help, nothing that he asked for and nothing that will change.

Before he realizes it, he's in front of a door. He doesn't knock, because the man on the other side is quicker; Merlin breathes in the scent of earth and mead and adventure, sees blue sky and endless fields.

"Merlin," Gwaine blinks at him, surprise clear in the way his eyes widen and his mouth quirks at the edges. He combs back his hair with one hand, and his smile is warm and welcoming. "You're home early."

And where there was nothing, now there's everything — anger and fear and _grief._ He slams the door behind him, locking it with a wave of his hand — it's a thought in the back of his mind, that _Gwaine doesn't know_ , but it hardly matters when he can feel magic crawling under his skin, itching and burning and fighting for release. In a second his hands are on Gwaine's chest, gripped tightly in the fabric of his tunic — his kiss is laced with passion and rage, and Merlin can tell that Gwaine is struggling to keep up.

Gwaine breaks the kiss, pulling back and breathing hard, eyes wide with alarm. He cups Merlin's face between his hands, calluses playing along the lines of his jaw, thumbs wiping away the tears falling down his cheeks. "Merlin. What's _wrong?"_

Merlin tries for words, tries to explain how much it _hurts_ , how it still feels like the flames of the pyre are burning at his back, that the words _sorcery_ and _evil_ and _demon_ are carved into his skin; wounds left open, letting his soul bleed out and slip between his fingers when he tries to catch it.

He takes his hand and knocks on his own chest, choking on his broken heart. _It's too much,_ he tries to convey. _There's too much._

Gwaine pulls him back towards the bed, never taking his eyes off of him, never letting go of his hand — it's still shaking, but Gwaine's hand is warm and larger than his, and Merlin focuses on that feeling, of being held, and thinks, _take it, take all of me, just for a moment –_

Gwaine removes Merlin's jacket, his tunic, his breeches and smalls, carefully laying them aside; he never stops speaking, whispering comforts and sweet nothings all too soft for Merlin to hear. He guides Merlin to the head of the bed, lets him lean back against the pillows; Gwaine strips his own clothes from his body, tossing them aside without concern and pulls a bottle of oil from a drawer in the small table next to his bed. He climbs onto the mattress, settles himself atop Merlin's thighs.

Merlin hasn't spoken a word since he came in, and now he's taken to having a glassy, far off look in his eyes. Gwaine takes his face between his palms and leans in, presses one, two, three chaste kisses on his brow, his eye, his cheek, and then finishes at his mouth, sucking on his lower lip. "Merlin?"

Merlin sighs and lets his eyes close, leaning into Gwaine's touch.

"There you are." Gwaine smiles, and reaches for Merlin's hand. "Can you do something for me, love?"

Merlin hums, and runs his free hand up Gwaine's thigh; he shivers with pleasure at the touch, and shifts as Merlin spreads his own legs wider. He takes the bottle of oil, uncorks it and pours it over Merlin's hand – he lifts his hips and lets his weight fall onto his knees as he leads Merlin's fingers underneath and behind until he can feel him, his touch hesitant and light. He drops his head onto Merlin's shoulder as he rolls his hips backwards, and Merlin needs no further instruction.

They're a mess of limbs, struggling to stay as close together as possible, swollen lips kissing naked skin and fingers curling until Gwaine is trembling and moaning above him; Merlin stares up at him with an expression full of awe and adoration, and it's enough that Gwaine's breath catches and he feels heat settle quickly and tightly behind his navel. _"Merlin,"_ he gasps.

And then there's nothing between them, nothing keeping them apart – he sinks, taking Merlin as deeply as his body allows. Merlin gasps, choked and overwhelmed, fingers clawing for purchase on Gwaine's back.

"I've got you, love, I've got you," Gwaine's lips are pressed to Merlin's hair, rough hands stroking his neck, over his shoulders, tracing his spine. "It's ok, you're ok."

Gwaine doesn't roll his hips or press any deeper, just wraps his arms around him and slides his fingers through Merlin's hair. Skin on skin on skin sets their nerves alight with sensitivity; Gwaine takes as much of Merlin as he can hold, keeping him safe and warm and held. He wraps his legs around his waist, and without even thinking Merlin crosses his own legs beneath them, supporting Gwaine's weight and keeping him close. Thin arms wrap around and fit the shape of Gwaine's ribs, long fingers locking together like another ridge of his spine; Merlin's head rests on his shoulder, breath warm and the bridge of his nose fitting tightly to the square of his jaw.

Gwaine takes a few moments just to breathe, to take comfort in Merlin's presence and the knowledge that he's _here,_ to feel pleasure and pride that he's able to take some of the burden from Merlin's shoulders, that here in the quiet of his rooms they fit together imperfectly but peacefully, and there's nothing more that Gwaine could ask for that would make him happier.

He lifts Merlin's face, fingers touching a whisper to his skin, and noses along the line of his cheek.

" _I've got you,"_ he sighs against Merlin's lips, and Merlin lets out a strangled sob.

Gwaine keeps steady with two hands on Merlin's chest, moving in time with his heart, with his breath, and when Merlin starts to cry it's with tears of gold and Gwaine doesn't think he's seen anything more beautiful.

"I'll keep you safe," he promises, holding Merlin's hand to his heart. _"I'll keep you safe,_ so let me help you, Merlin. If there's too much, just let go, and I'll catch you _._ "

So Merlin lets go, and when he comes down it's to being tucked into the space between Gwaine's heart and the stars, wrapped in wool and furs and something that sounds like _goodnight,_ but feels more like _forever._


End file.
